When He Shall Die
by Jack And Honey
Summary: Aching bones, gunfire, shouts, screams, groans. She couldn't hear a thing, all she could hear was the sound of steel falling like the gates of hell opining. And like that, she was running through the gunfire, bullets biting into her skin, if only to be with the man she loved. ((Tumblr Prompt gone awry. For Kathleensmiles)
1. Chapter 1

**This was originally supposed to be a prompt for Kathleenesmiles.  
But it went awry. I felt very badly about it. So maybe, maybe this'll make up for it.  
Warning, mega angst and tears (I cried writing it.) and cussing and general racism. _  
_oh! and on another weebit. Please imagine Sean Patrick Flanery as Ford. Thereyago. Now its in your head. You may go on.**

* * *

**_"When he shall die,__  
__Take him and cut him out in little stars,__  
__And he will make the face of heaven so fine__  
__That all the world will be in love with night__  
__And pay no worship to the garish sun."__  
William Shakespeare._**

Gunfire.  
Screaming.  
Aching bones.  
Explosions.  
All of this happened around Carol Peletier, but she noticed none of it.  
The sun was but a whisp upon the horizon. They were winning. But at what cost?  
So many dead, their own, others, innocents.  
All at the hands of a narcissistic madman with an eyepatch and a sour temperament.

Carol let out a sob as she ran towards the man she had grown to love so very much.  
She ran through gunfire, through shouts and things biting into her skin.  
She thought she might have been shot.  
In the shoulder, maybe? She wasn't sure. She didn't feel pain; all she felt was an all-encompassing terror and a drive to get to the man.

The steel had fallen with a noise not unlike the gates of hell opining.  
The Governor had blew half the old cotton gin apart.  
The steel support beam had fallen with the sound that wracked through her bones, that shattered her spine, most likely, along with his.  
She skidded to his side, her knees tearing open as she fell upon the rocks.  
He opened his eyes, eyes so blue you could find yourself lost in them.  
He'd not let out scream, no noise.  
He was good at that, being in pain and not letting anyone know.

"wo-woman." He grunted.  
"Gon'get yo'self killed." He slurred, his head falling back as he tried to see her.  
He knew it was her the moment the soft hands touched his head, and it was pulled onto his lap.  
The Steel across his lower chest bit into him, burned and cut.

"Fine then." She told him.  
"Good a day as any." She said in a watery voice, her great blue eyes vast as the Georgia sky, lashes as thick as the pines. He liked that about her eyes. How it reminded him of the mountains.  
They grey of smoke coming out a chimney, lips the color of strawberries in spring.  
The one hand he had loose came to rest on her shoulder as his head lay on her lap.

"you're bleedin'" he coughed.

"Don't care." She told him, her own hands on his face, smoothing his hair.

"You'shouldgo." He mumbled, his eyes drifting shut for a moment before they opened again, a shot of pain going up his spine.

"No. I won't." She replied, not bothering to wipe away the tears that had fallen from her eyes.

He sighed, letting his eyes close.  
"I know." He sighed. It was a moment before he felt the tears prickling his own eyes.  
"Do you remember-" he asked her, his breath was heavy, strained.  
"When I yelled at you?"

She let out a watery laugh.  
"Which time?" her hands wiped away dirt, grime and gunpower from his cheeks, thumb brushing against the tiny mark, hidden so well in the scruffy beard.

"Stop." He said, though there was humor there, his face fell.  
"At the farm? When I said Sophia wasn't mine?" his voice was so faint she had to duck closer over him so she could hear over the dull roar of war in her ears.  
"Yes, I remember. I know you didn't mean it." She told him.

He shook his head a tiny amount.  
"No-" tears flowed down his face as she clutched her side with his free hand, hand dipping under the shirt, hands on the cool, soft skin of her ribs.  
How many nights had he thought about that skin, the skin of her neck, of her breast?  
How it glistened when she worked, (He had decided that everyone else sweated, but Carol, Carol _glistened._Something that would continue to baffle him until the day he died,)  
(which, admittedly, had come before he thought himself ready.)  
How many nights had he wanted to touch her skin, but not had the courage to do so?  
It figured he'd get the courage, only when their time was up.  
"I wanted her to be." He told her, chest rattling.

"Wanted her to be mine, never wanted anythin' more. I'm so angry with her. I woulda come to get her. I woulda taken care of her, taught her to hunt and to make dumplin's. Woulda taken her on runs, taught her all the things my daddy and her daddy never did." His face was anguished, hand near bruising against her skin. "I woulda told her 'bout the Cherokees and all their stories. I wanted her to be mine the moment I saw you and her."  
"And shit if some part of me hates Rick because he left that little girl there. He shoulda-" a sob racked him, causing pain to shoot up his chest.

"Shhh..shh…" she told him, eyes blurry with tears.  
"I know. Sophia was done here though, she was –" she pressed her forehead to his.

"I'm sorry I'm an ass. That I couldn't be more for you." He told her.  
"I'm sorry I ne-nev-never tol-told you." He spluttered as she wiped a bit of blood from his mouth.  
"Damnit, Carol. I love ya, more than anythin'." He grimaced, letting the pain and dizziness, and bloodloss take over him for a moment.  
"Don' leaveme." He muttered. "please, don't. I don't wanna die alone. I don't wanna bealone." He looked so young, so scared. For a man who lived life like it was his last day everyday, he was surprised how much he wanted to live, how much he wanted to be here. How very pissed off he was that he wasn't given anymore time.  
He didn't bother to tell her to leave again. He knew it would be useless, A useless thing to say.  
He knew, if the position was inverted, if she were the one slowly being crushed to death, that he wouldn't leave her for anything.  
Not for Merle, Not for Rick, not for Asskicker (though, that particular one would be a bit of a battle itself.)

"I won't leave." She whispered, kissing his lips slightly, her body bent over his.  
"Iwon'tleave…" she pulled his hair back with soft hands again.  
"you need a haircut." She muttered.  
He let out a choked laugh.  
"Gimmyone tomorrow?" he chuckled in a whisper.

"Kay…" she told him.  
It was a few more minutes, as the sun rose higher, leaving the world in a dusky morning light, its soft tendrils of light trailing over the horizon, lighting the world alight and showing the carnage in full relief.

"You wouldabeen a good daddy." She told him, her heart broken into so many pieces. There would be no healing from this. She would die here, she knew. She would die holding the man she had come to love so very much.  
His fingers twitched against her skin, leaving her with the impression he was grasping onto life.  
"hmm." He said, not believing it, but enjoying the idea.

Suddenly, there was a hand over her, a man, dark skinned and dark eyed.  
A Henchman.

She ducked over him, covering his head with her breast as a scream came from her throat.  
there was a nipping, a biting on her chest. A tender kiss as they waited to die by the hands of the man as he raised his hand, a gun aimed.  
They cringed as the gunshot went off, it was only when they were both still alive a moment later that the confusion settled in.

The world was a dull roar around their ears as the man shouted, pulling her away.  
She didn't understand, didn't understand a word of it as he leaned over and slapped her face hard.  
Daryl was bellowing with what strength he had left.  
His arm reaching back as if to grab at her, only to land on the rotting flesh of a deceased walker.  
Words such as "_MINE!" _and _"IFYOUTOUCHER-!" _and _"STUPIDFRIGGENSPSICK" _were grunted in anger as the handprint came harsh and red across her cheek, her eyes focusing slightly.  
There also might have been ''_wetback'' _thrown in there as well.

"H_elp. Me." _Those simple words were what came through to her as the man moved away from her.  
And with a gasp of air, she had snapped to.  
"Only got a minute" Martinez grunted.  
"You grab hold your man, and you pull when I say." She nodded, hooking her hands under his armpits.  
With an almighty yell, the man squatted down and pushed upwards, lifting the steel with a great creaking noise.  
Carol pulled with all her might, watching Daryl's pained face twist into a hard grimace as he was pulled from the rubble.

The moment his feet were free, Martinez threw it down with a shout.  
Daryl had passed out as blood gushed from the gash in his hip, but Martinez said nothing as he bent over and pulled the man in a firemans lift over his body. "MOVE!" He commanded of Carol, running as fast as he could with the man.  
The world around her was the color of blood and the sent in the air was of charred flesh and burnt bone, Her mouth was covered against the smoke as Daryl was thrown into the bed of a truck with a sickening crunch.  
Martinez then lifted Carol, threw her in before latching the tailgate and shouting at the man in the front to drive. "FORD! DRIVE!"  
The bearded man in front waved his hand, taking off like a bottlerocket  
The world spun around her as she heard the wails of a child.  
She looked around, a tiny black boy was curled in the corner. His face was wrought with terror.  
Daryl, who had a dazed look about his face, muttered a ''_shhh…'' _as he reached a hand out to touch the boy's bare foot, the closest thing to him. "_bringwalkers."_ He muttered, his eyes drifting shut.

As she looked back, turning back on Sodom and Gomorra (and mildly surprised that she didn't turn into a pillar of salt) she saw the man standing there, looking at the town around him.  
She mouthed a silent _'thank you' _before she closed her eyes and took a breath.


	2. Chapter 2

"Gotta be real still now." The man grey and worn whispered as he fell to the Forrest floor in an awkward, creaky way.

"Why?" The boy, twelve years old, all limbs and dark skin asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Cause you'll scare the game." He stated.

"Why are they scared?" Asked the boy.

"Because we're the predator." replied the man.

"What's a predator?" Asked the boy as he settled into the mossy ferns.

"The Eater, not the Eaten." Replied the man quietly.

"So...we're the predator for the quale, but the -"

"Prey." filled in the father.

"but we're the _prey _for Walkers?" He asked, deep dark eyes looking over at him.

"Yop." he said, nodding.

"That don't seem right..." Muttered the boy.

"It ain't."

"Why ain't it?" asked the boy.

"Just ain't."

"Oh."

The two were silent for a long time, The dark skinned boy and the blue eyed goat of a man.

"Why is the sky blue?" the boy asked, tilting his head up to meet the man's eyes.

"Light from the sun comes down," He wiggled his fingers in the air, to make the point.  
"gets broken up by the gasses in the air from the ocean, the gasses make a prism of sort, breaks it all up. Makes it look blue." replied the man evenly.

"Oh." the boy was silent for a moment. "Then why is the ocean blue?"

"Cause the sky's blue." Replied the man.

"You seen the ocean?"

"Yop."

"What's it look like?"

"Like a big asslake."

"Oh."

"mmmhmmm..."

All around them, the forrest was alive.  
It was alive with the sound of birds, and of critters and sunlight and leaves and wind.  
The air was fresh and bright. And glorious in only the way a new spring could bring.

See that there?" The father asked several minutes later, whispering and pointing to the horizon.

"Yeaaah..." Drawled the boy.

"Really? huh... well, what is it I'm lookin' at then?" the father asked, his brows crinkling in mirth.

"Trees? You love trees." Replied the boy, quick as ever.

"No... No boy. I ain't lookin' at no trees." He sighed. "Now open your eyes and look where I'm pointing."

The boy did as told, ahead of them there was a bush of a tail. a slight gold in the sunset.  
"OH! I-" the boy started out in glee, only to have a hand clamped over his mouth.

"Sfowerrydferl." came the muffled whisper.

"You gon'shutup?" He asked.

"Yop." Replied the boy as the hand was taken away from his mouth.

"Good. Now, set up the bow, that's right." He watched as the boy did as he was told.

"Get him in your sights." And when that was done, the man wrapped his arms around the boy, protecting him from the recoil (even though there wasn't all that much and the boys strong arms and sinewy muscle could handle it)

"Take a deep breath-" The boy did as told.

"and let it out..." The boy did that as well.

"And-" with a great TWACK the bolt went whistling through the air, spinning as it landed upon the fat squirrel's skull and it fell towards the earth.

"I DID IT! I DID IT DADDY!" Shouted the boy.

"I know.. I know you did son. Now. Quit your shouting 'for the rest run off." He said in a growl that had about as much harshness in it as a butterfly landing on a daisy stem.

"Yussir." Was the boys reply as he nodded fervently.

"What now?" Asked the boy.

"What do you think?" Asked the man.

"If you hit it, Go an' git it?" Asked the boy with a grin.

"Damn right." Said the man.

"Tiptoes now. No crackin' and thumpin'."

"Yussir." Replied the boy as the bow was set down gingerly and respectfully before he was darting through the Forrest, his hand on the knife at his side.  
The man was fifty two by now. No where near the silent, deadly hunter he once had been.  
That had ended years ago. (though, he took great pride in the fact he could _still _sneak up and scare the bajeezus out of his wife)  
But he would teach his boy. Teach him like his granddaddy had before.  
Teach him how'ta be silent. How to blend in. How to hunt with the grace of the Cherokee and Chippawah. To be silent and unheard.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a great screaming that echoed in the Prison as the noonday sun shined brilliant through the high windows.  
A screaming none had ever heard before.  
The sound of the man in pain.  
Daryl's shouts of agony ricocheted off the walls like rain on a tin roof, slowly then with the shattering of glass on tile.

Moments before, the survivors sat on the ground, heads bowed, hearts heavy and eyes wet.  
The bowed head of the survivors were snapped to attention as Carl, worn and bloodied rattled against the gates, rushing to unlock it so the new people could be let in.

Tyreese, Carl and Sasha had been on watch when the pickup had come up to the gate, Carol in the back, standing up and waving her arms- telling them to let her in.  
Now there was blood.

Daryl was strung between two men, Tyreese and a man unknown.  
His mouth was open in a sound of pure agonized and bloodied hell as he begged, pleaded for death.  
Begging for an Abraham to put a bullet in his brain.  
Hands moved quickly as Daryl was lain out against a steel table, his hands clutching at the new man.  
"MERLE! HOLD HIM DOWN!" Shouted the man unknown as his knife went to Daryl's pants.  
Hands were working, ripping away fabric until he lay naked on the table, skin ashen under the blood stains.

Carol gazed on in a daze as she held the tiny boy to her chest as he too screamed.  
As Merle bellowed out his brother's name, as Beth held a squalling Judith, as the world spun around her. She felt the air leave her lungs as she saw her man naked before her.  
Saw his shattered skin, saw the mangled pulp of his foot, of the white bone that protruded from Daryl's thigh.  
But then, the world went black. It went black as the boy in her arms as she felt herself slip away.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Ach. Wee bit short and you know, Odd. **  
**This one was actually kind of hard to write. **  
**whoo for over description. **  
**I don't know. I just wanted there to be a big impact of Daryl actually screaming. Actually showing he was in pain. **  
**The man has a very high threshold for pain, and he would have been taught that crying out was a weakness. **  
**That crying out only meant more pain. I wanted to show that. If I did a good job or not. I don't know. **  
**(which is why you should leave a review! tell me if I did a good job, or if this is all just a jumble of whateverishness) **

**So yes. until next chapter. **  
**(which may come soon, or may come later. I'm not sure) **  
**Thanks for reading and please review!**  
**-Hannah. **


	4. Chapter 4

"Yo' Merle.  
Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?" Asked Sgt. Abraham Ford as he bent over, digging through his green backpack.  
Merle looked up, his eyes previously having been trained on the ground as he sat in the cell where Daryl now lay silent and unconscious.  
Carol was laying down, having been shoved in bed after Daryl was stabilized. (or as much so, as they could with the few medical items they hand.)  
(Apparently, Ford was a bit of a squirrel, having stored away medical supplies and antibiotics in his vast backpack as he came across from them. Between Rick and Ford, they were able to piece what was left of Daryl back together. With the lack of xrays and modern medicine, only time would tell if he would live.)

"Tolstoy. Why?" He said, looking confused as he twitched his arm as more blood ran into the vial- ready to be given to Daryl.  
All eyes were trained on the two, Glenn looking shocked and Rick mildly confused.

"Got a present for ya." Ford told him, coming to crouch next to his feet. He handed him the book.  
"Milton's got himself a damn fine library. Found this, thought you'd want it. Picked up a few as well. Daryl's gonna be out for a while."

"It's in Russian." Came Merle's slightly incredulous tone.

"Yes sir." Nodded Ford as he leaned forward, hands busily retying Merle's hiking boots, tightening the laces as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"You remembered." muttered Merle, "How many years ago was that?"

"A good twenty, if I recall." He chuckled, switching boots.

"Wait, you speak Russian?" Rick asked.

Merle simply nodded, turning the book over in his hands as though it were a precious gem.

" Merle here got a letter from home, from a young miss who wasn't even legal-"

"Eff you man! She was nineteen, and you damn well know it!"

"-At the time…" The Sargent spoke, as if Merle hadn't even said anything, "She told him if he learned Russian, she'd marry him. Apparently, she always liked those weirdo comibastards.. So what did this Motherfucker do? He learned Russian."

"Watch your language." Michonne commented from where she sat, silent and near invisible against a wall.  
The man tipped his head, as if saying he was sorry.

"Woulda done anythin' for her." Merle mumbled, flipping over the book as he nodded thanks to Ford as he stood up and cracked his back with several loud pops. "And the only mother I e'er fucked was yours, so shut up."

Ford just laughed whilst Michonne frowned.

"What happened to her?" Maggie asked, head tilting to the side.

"I killed her." Was Merle's short and snarky reply as he shut the book with a snap.

_"JokilledJo._" Muttered Daryl, his mouth opining only slightly.  
Had the block not gone silent (and the walls not made out of the concrete) it would not have been heard.

"Shut up, Bro." Snapped Merle, his eyes closing.  
"Jesus H. Christ. Got a damn compound fracture, busted pelvis and a crushed foot and ya can't keep your damn mouth shut. Ain't good for nothin' but nonsense and digging in other people's business are you?" There was a harsh sound from Daryl's mouth as a middle finger was twitched.  
It was a chuckle.  
But as quick as it came, it was gone as Daryl fell once again into oblivion.

Ford just laughed as the quieted boy looked up from Michonne's shoulder when he heard Daryl's voice.

"Kid might be concussed along with those abrasions on his face." Ford told the others, walking out of the cell to leave Merle with his brother. "Might wanta watch out for that."

"What do you mean?" asked Rick, his face older than before. He wiped his eyes with his palms, kneading at the balls.

"Daryl threw him." Was the answer.

* * *

**This is my fic! my fic! so blfffft! I can do what ever I want.  
-feels only mildly guilty for noncannon/very guilty for blasphemy)**


	5. Chapter 5

This was what it was like, to be at war.  
To be a soldier.  
Daryl always wondered, (though not enough to sign himself up) what it would be like to go to war.  
To be a soldier.  
Merle was a soldier. Semper fi and all that shit.

Nah, Daryl was never any good at taking advice, much less orders.  
Merle joined the Marines to escape.  
Daryl was never that brave (or stupid)

But this. This was war. This was hellfire and damnation.  
This was what it was like to fight for your freedom.  
He felt like a soldier (under a Ricktatorship) as he lifted the AR15 To his shoulder and pulled the trigger, popping off assholes where they lay.  
A harsh, humorless laugh bubbled up from his throat.  
He woulda made a damn good Sniper had he ever joined up.  
The train of thought, and the laugh was cut short as something caught his eye.

There was a flash, a glint on metal a head that rolled, a spray of blood and a child.

Like a set of photographs, the scene played out before him.  
Life, sometimes to Daryl, was like a stack of polaroid's.  
Freeze framed in succession.

Towns person, twenty feet to his left.  
Walker, Six feet fourteen inches to his right.  
Carol was twenty feet away, ducked under an alcove, safe.  
(Damn woman, pitching a God damned fit the moment it was suggested that she stay home)  
(of course, there wasn't a single damn shred of pride in his gut as she shot down the towns person and the walker. Nope, not a damn one.)  
(Taught her everything she knew.)

Governor on the roof.  
Two small white dots- (take note of that) (It's out of place)  
Martinez to the left, fifteen feet and a half feet, facing west. (shot in the leg)  
Michonne, also on the roof.  
Rick two hundred, down the street, to the right, ducking over Maggie.

The world snapped to. All silence gone. All numb and void and static silence that had filled his ears moments ago. Gone.  
He felt ice spread down his spine as he saw the spark of a match.  
A grin so vile and white that it should have belonged in a comic book (Or the Dr. Susues's the Grinch.)  
(He wasn't sure where that image came from- some repressed Childhood memory brought on by head trauma, he was sure) was reflected in the tiny spark.

But then, it was gone, as fire light and dawn glinted on a long blade. (Two more white dots in the darkness. White teeth too. Not a grin, a grimace.)  
The man known as Phillip Blake's head fell to the roof, his blood spraying and his body crumpling under Michonne's blade.

But Daryl knew it was too late.  
The fuse lit would blow the gin apart in ten and a half seconds. (eleven if he was lucky)  
Would blow the two little white dots apart.  
(White dots, he now knew, being the eyes of a small black boy. Had he not seen the whites of his eyes, he would have never noticed the boy hidden next to the body of a long dead woman with skin the same color)  
The thought process lasted no more than two seconds from start to end before Daryl was running.

He skid to a halt on his knees like a Babe Ruth into home (did he play that position? Oh who the fuck cared? He never liked baseball any'how.) The popping of charges went off in his ears.  
He wouldn't be able to make it, he knew that much. Wouldn't be able to lift the boy and carry him away.  
So he did what he could as the metal started to fall.  
He grabbed ahold of the boy's legs and threw the boy (and a prayer of safekeeping) to the right with all the strength he had left in his tired body.  
Kid didn't weigh anything more than a sack of flour, Daryl thought as he watched the boy fly through the air, all limbs and feet.

He didn't know if the boy had landed in the grass like he'd planned. (Though, he was probably killed anyhow, his head smashing into earth) He wouldn't know if the boy survived.  
But as he braced himself for death as the metal rained down upon him, he thought he was okay with that.

* * *

**And now everyone! for another installment of how to write badly, with Hannah Beth!  
*sigh* **  
**This. Was. Interesting.**  
**WHYISDARYL('sintellagence)SOHARDTOWRITE?!  
damn that bastard for being so smart.  
This chapter is horrible. But ya'll will survive. I dare say.**

**As always, thanks for reading and PLEASEREVIEW!**  
**because this near killed me.**  
**And well, I need some sort of life support.**


	6. Chapter 6

Silence. He liked the silence. He had always had been a quiet person.  
(He often wondered if he had different parentage if he would be more outspoken. He doubted it though.)  
When he didn't have to talk, then he could just listen. He could listen to Beth singin' to Asskicker or he could listen to Maggie tearing old cloth for fresh bandages.  
In the silence, when people left him alone he could focus on something other than the searing pain that wracked through his body.

He took a deep breath, letting it wash over him as he tried to ignore the ache in his ribs.  
He was thankful (even though no one would hear it from him) for the crapton of drugs they'd pumped into him.  
It made it almost bearable to be alive.  
He took another slow breath as he listened to his surroundings.

In a cell over, Merle and Abe were playing Chess. (Where the hell they'd gotten a Chess board, he still wasn't sure.) Rick was snoring- loudly.  
Michonne sharpening that blade of hers and Carol was next to him.

Carol was breathing next to him, slow and even.  
Not the harsh choked sobs she'd spread over him in Woodbury.  
She wasn't crying this time. He hated it when she cried, especially if it was over him.  
He wasn't anything worth cryin' over. That was for damned sure.  
Carol was next to him, sitting in a chair, her head near his lap. He didn't mind her being there. Not one bit.

(Unlike Merle. As far as he could tell, it was three days after Woodbury when he'd woken up enough to tell him to fuck off. Between he and Carol, he couldn't stand the cryin' and gnashin' and damnadable angst that oozed off the two of them.)

The bed was surprisingly comfortable under him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.  
They'd dismantled a bunk bed, stacked the two pieces to make a taller, single bed for him as he lay, leg strapped down with cloth and twobyfours, ass propped up on pillows so he couldn't move. (Not that he'd even bother to try.)

"You's wake?" A strange and new voice asked him as there was a tugging on his arm hair.  
He cracked an eye open as he felt Carol sit up.  
There was a little boy looking at him with huge, dark eyes.  
Beside him, he could feel Carol getting up to take the boy away. He gripped her hand, telling her to stay.  
"Am now." Grunted Daryl.

"Oh." muttered the little boy. "Missus Carol say you're hurt. You still broke?" His face was so innocently concerned as the question was asked that Daryl felt his eyebrows raise in amusement.

"Yep. Still broke." He told him.

"Oh." Was the boy's reply. "I'm sorry you's broken."

"Ain't your fault." mumbled Daryl as he let his eyes shut again.  
This whole talking thing was an exhausting business.

''Yes it is." The boy protested.

Carol had stood up.  
"Sit down, Carol. He ain't bothering me none." Daryl told her as he tilted his head towards her. He gave her a soft smile. She nodded and sat back down, wringing her hands together in her lap.

"What gave you an idea like that?'' Daryl asked the boy, his head tilting to the other side.

"Mr. Merle." Was the whimpered reply.  
Daryl let out a huff of air. Of course it was Merle. Daryl had half a mind to scream his brother's name and tell him off for scaring the kid. (only half, mind you. The ribs he suspected were broken were the deciding factor against it.)

"What's your name, boy?" Daryl asked as he looked at the tearful boys face. Damn he hated seeing kids cry. He was never a weepy kid himself, so how the hell was he supposed to deal with 'em now?  
Hell, he near had a heart attack when he had to take care of Sophia's skinned knees- _no._ _Not going there._

"Micah." The little boy sniffled.

"Micah. I like that name. Comes from the Bible, don't it?" He asked, his eyes drifting shut again.

"Yussir. My Momma says he was a prophet." Micah nodded his head fervently.

"Hmm... well, Micah. Don't pay attention to what Merle has to say. He's an asshat.''

"Daryl." Chided Carol quietly.

"Okay." Nodded the little boy next to him. "What's an asshat?"

Daryl snorted. "Someone who doesn't pay attention to what he should."

"oohhh…." Nodded the little boy. Daryl opened his eyes again, looking the kid over.  
His woolly hair needed a cutting, his face was torn up and one eye was black.  
He felt guilt sit hot and heavy like stone in his gut.  
Thing was gonna cry again too. _Shit. _

"I bet, if you ask Ms. Carol real nicely she'll pick you up so you can come take a nap with me, how'szat?" Daryl asked, not knowing what else to do.  
Sleep. Kid needed sleep. He could handle that, right? Sleepin' kid?  
Hell, it was his fault his face was torn to shit.

"Can I?" Was the squeaky plea.

"Of course, Darling." Carol responded, walking around and lifting the boy.  
Daryl lifted his arm as far as he could so the boy could lay in the crook of his neck.  
He shut one eye, while the other remained open, looking down at the boy as he was settled against his bare chest and his good arm.

"You sure you're okay?" Carol whispered as she tucked the blanket around the two.

"Yeah we're alright, ain't we bub?" Micah nodded into the large man's chest, a thumb propping in his mouth while the other hand traced along the silken ridges of scar tissue.

"His head okay?" Asked Daryl, looking up at the blue eyed woman as she stood teary eyed next to them.

"We think it'll be okay. Honestly, we're more worried about his hearing, with all the gunfire." She settled herself back in her chair, her head leaning against the wall. "We're still not quite sure what he was doing out there." His woman stated, kissing the boys head, then his lips.

"Love you." She told him.

"Hmm..." was Daryl's response as he wound his fingers in hers and let silence and sleep over take him once again.

**I'll make ya'll a deal, Daddy!Daryl for a review?  
huh? huh? huh? *waggles eyebrows***


	7. Chapter 7

** Warnings for this chapter include illusions to childabuse, Self harm, overuse of the comma, sexuality and cussing.  
If this is not your cup of tea. Then please, look away.  
This chapter and the next chapters is for rhymenocerous who was a darling and left a lovely review.  
Hopefully, the Daddy!Daryl in this will make up for the above warnings.  
also, is Sgt. A. Ford based off of Flanery?  
peeerrhaaaps. But We're gonna overlook that.**

_

* * *

"What's up brotha?" asked Abraham as he opened the door to the catwalk in the early dawn hours and grasped hands with Daryl where he sat, bad leg (now mostly healed) propped up, eyes trained on the horizon.

"Nothing much." replied Daryl, eyes flickering over to his old friend. "Watchin' the nasties. So far, nothing more than these poxy bastards." He kicked his good foot against the ground.

"Good thing too. It's been quiet." rumbled the other man. "Don't like it none."

"Merle figures that nigger's comin' after us. Say we got his son." Daryl told Abraham slowly as he pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket and placed one in his mouth, flicking the lighter and watching the paper catch. "Least, that's what he heard from Milton over the H.T."

"How would they know we had Micah though?" Abe asked him shaking his head at the offered cigarette with a muttered 'It'll give ya cancer.' which only had Daryl snorting through the stream of smoke coming out of his nose.

"That's just the thing, ain't it? _How do they know?_ Last anyone saw the kid; he was with his mother before the gin blew up. It was so dark that night. They wouldn't have paid attention to me or what I was throwing."

"You figure they're watchin' us?" Abe asked, falling into the chair next to Daryl.

"Yop." Daryl nodded, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. "Know they are, they ain't as sneaky as they think they are. Armatures." He popped the cigarette back in his mouth with a grin of amusement.

"Hmmm..." hummed Abe. "You gon' give the boy back?" This was a stupid question, of course. Anyone who knew anything 'bout anything knew there was no way in hell they'd be able to pry Daryl and the boy away from each other.  
In fact, it was a wonder the kid had started talking to anyone other than Daryl.

If Abraham thought back to the near silent freshman he knew back in his senior year of high school, with the floppily blondish hair that covered his eyes and the sneer permanently etched on his face, he never in a million years would have guessed the kid from a town over to the left and up the mountain, the one who spent most his time in the library over some massive book, the one who would never take off his shirt in gym class and would hit anyone who called him by his last name (though, somehow Faggot and a whole slew of other horrible names never seemed to faze him) could be so patient and willing to listen to the kid's constant questions about the world around him.

Hell, once Micah had figured out Daryl would not only listen to his questions, but actually answer them (or if he didn't know the answer, would send him to someone who knew.)  
(This wasn't often though) he hadn't stopped asking the man questions as he held on to the hem of Daryl's jeans as Daryl went limping about his day.  
(Daryl Dixon, apparently- did not hold hands)  
(Though, Abraham figured this was simply because he didn't like having still hands, Daryl always had to be doing something. He'd been that way for as long as Ford could remember)

Daryl's eyes darkened.  
He held out his arm to his old friend, pointing to three circular scars on the inside of his forearm.  
"Know what these are?"

"Cigarette burns…" He said slowly before his eyes widened. "Kid has those on his feet, don't he?"

"He ain't goin' back there. He's mine now." Daryl told him, taking the cigarette and putting it out on his skin over one of the old burns.  
He hissed at the pain, before flicking the bud away.

Abraham said nothing for a long while, the two watching walkers collect at the gates, yearning for the flesh they could smell inside the walls of the prison.  
Daryl had always been an odd duck. Sometimes, he wondered if the man caused himself pain, just to make sure he could still feel.  
It was so long ago, the day he found the kid huddled in the men's bathroom, face torn to shit, holding a lighter to the inside of his thigh… He had hoped that the years had made things easier for Daryl. Made it easier to forget his past.  
Obviously not.

He and Merle were made for this world. Made for a world of pain, and of torture, and survival over _living.  
_It didn't make it any less difficult to watch it go down.  
Abraham wondered if the others saw it- surely, Carol did- as quick as that woman was.  
But did the others? Did they know about the scars on the Brothers back? About the night terrors he knew Merle still had.  
How many times had he woken up to a knife at his throat if he startled the older Dixon in his sleep? That wasn't war.  
That wasn't Iraq. That was Backwoods Georgia and a mean Daddy who didn't know you weren't supposed to hit your sons.

As sun rose slowly over the world around them Daryl stood up, cracking his back.  
"I'm gon' go see if Carol won't let me lay down with her." Daryl told him, grasping for the cane that was now his almost constant companion. He looked down at the cane with contempt. "Try and get some sleep."

"You hit that yet?" Abraham asked with a snarky laugh and a smirk. "Cause if you don't flick that bean soon, I will." He waggled his eyebrows at Daryl, whose face turned brilliantly red.

"Tactless bastard." was the growled reply as Daryl limped away and back into the prison and Abraham laughed loudly, propping his feet up in the chair Daryl had been sitting in before.


	8. Chapter 8

Trees. Woods. Trees. Woods. Raccoon  
Skinny legs a'runnin'  
Dirty hands a'graspin' in the dark.  
Barefeet scratched and torn to shit. Back bleedin' and stinging somethin' fierce from where the old man had whopped him upside the back with the phone cord.  
Momma'd been a'screamin'.  
Merle was a' howlin'  
Pops was just silent, silent as the grave 'for it all went'ta shit.  
Daryl done sneezed, effin' sneezed (no doubt from the dusty carpet his mother never vaccumed) . Then he'd done it. Pops had told him, "don't you make'a noise, boy!' And he'd done made one.  
Then his Daddy was whoppin' that phone cord on 'im and Merle was'a howlin' and Momma was a'screamin' and Daddy was silent as the grave.

"Go on, git!" Shouted Momma.  
"You stupid little shit." Said Merle.  
So off he did trot. Into the deep dank woods.  
Dirt and trees and dirt and trees.  
An'a raccoon an'a deer bedded down.  
He think he might sleep  
Climb on up in a tree.

Stupid shit. Goin' deeper and deeper. Back just a stingin'

A loud HOOOO! so loud it done near took off his neck when he spun around, he didn't like the woods none.

* * *

_"I went dowwn to the river to preeeey."_ Sang the boy, buck ass naked, standin' in the river, scrubbin' at his undershorts.  
_"Thinking bout those good old daaaays."  
_He weren't sure what the song was 'bout. But it sure was pretty when his momma sang it in Church on sunday.

_"Goin' off the raillllss ona crazy traaain!"_ A fish!  
With a bound and a bumble he took after it, leavin' a nasty paira shorts driftin' in the water.

* * *

"Hickery dickery dock.'' The boy sang, limbs akimbo and toes wigglin' in the muddy waters as he popped blueberries into his mouth. "Gotta punch that clock."  
He didn't know what he was sayin'.  
Weren't nothin' but nonsense he figured.  
But it'd been days. Maybe even a whole year!  
(He wondered if he was nine yet)  
He'd 'come a real wild man. Livin' in the woods, jus' a'itchin and a'scratchin (poison oak or somethin')  
"Little black bugs that suck yo' bluuuuuuud!" He thought he had a sunburn too.  
But that didn't mean anythin' just meant he was a Redneck, cause Redneck's had red necks.  
"Daryl is Feral! That means I'ma crazy unbroken dog. That's what Merle say. Woof!" He let out a bark of a laugh.  
"I ain't no dog. Imma Daryl. See." He spun around, talking to himself. "Daryl. And there's only one'a me." He pounded his chest twice with tiny dirty fists.  
"Jack an' Jill went up the hill, Jack burned out on booze an' pills."

* * *

_''Mooommmaa."_ The boy cried, sniffling into his elbow as he sat hunkered into the hollow of a tree, under the little hut of leaves and moss and sticks he made.  
"What'choo lookin' at?" He scowled, wiping the back his hand across his cheeks, peering down at an ant that had crawled by.  
"I ain't no sissy. Ima Dixon. A Daryl Dixon. Don't need noone. No Momma, No Pops. Not Merle. Uuhhhuuhh." He shook his head. Nope. He didn't cry. Dixons didn't cry. No matter how hungry you are. How tired you were. How lonley and how sc-sca-scared you are  
Nope! Dixon's don' cry.  
Dixon's don't feel pain.  
They don't feel happy.  
They don't feel scared.  
Dixon's just is. And when they cain't. Well. They make sure they cain't.  
That's why Pops does his tweak.  
An Merle smoke's his pipe.  
An Momma has her Cigarettes.  
Cause they don't wan' feel nothin'  
Feelin's too hard an'way. Just take up too much time in the day. Ain't that right boy? Stupid peicea shit. Don't know up from down and got himself lost as hell. Didn't he?

* * *

"Momma? Pops?'' The little boy asked, stickin' his head through the screen door.  
"Me-merle?" But no one answered. And no one was home.  
Shrugging, the boy walked through the dingy living room, into the dirty kitchen and made himself a sandwich.

* * *

**As always, reviews are darling! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry this has taken so long to update, I just got sorta stuck to be honest. **  
**But! hopefully it's not too bad. **  
**_(also! if anyone is interested in a Zombie Apocalypse Rpg on tumblr, lemmy know, Because I happen to have one!)_ **  
**Thanks so much for reading and drop a review if you will! Means the world!**

**_.+._**

Soft, open mouthed kisses were pressed against the corner of her neck as she curled against his chest, his knee brought up between her legs.

How long had he yearned to be in such a place as this? To have her close to him?  
Years, it seemed.  
His entire life. She rocked against him, groaning in satisfaction as she did causing him to groan simply from hearing her utter such a groan.

"Shh…" he chuckled lightly, his hand coming to brush up against her mouth, She bit down on it lightly- her eyes wide and sparkling with happiness, lips flushed from their favored kissing.  
He ran his rough hand up the satin of her thigh, wallowing in the feel of her skin against his. She opened her mouth, but what came out was not her cry of passion- but the cry of another, the cry of a young boy screaming in terror.

Daryl sat up so quickly that he bashed his head upon the bottom of the top bunk in his haste to be by the boy's side.  
He was dimly aware of Carol behind him, hasting to get dressed as he pulled the tie on his belt- bare feet on freezing cold concrete.

"The hell are you doing to him?!" he nearly screamed, panic filling his voice in a way that he hadn't anticipated.  
There was a small crowd gathered in front of the cell that Michonne had taken as her own- given the fact that it was during the middle of the day, the boy must have been put down for a nap by the woman.  
(Michonne seemed to like the boy… Daryl thought that Micah just liked her because they shared the same skin color. No one doubted the boy was his though, something in which he was quite proud of.)  
(Even if he didn't show it)

"We didn't do anything." Rick stated calmly, stepping back from the door.  
Inside Michonne was trying to calm down the boy who was huddled in corner of the bottom bunk, tears streaming down his face as he screamed.

The smell of urine hit his nose sharply as he entered the cell, sweet almost- like maple syrup.  
(Why the hell little boy piss smelled different than normal everyday person piss, he wasn't sure.  
Hell. Even Asskicker's piss smelled different from Micah's piss)

"I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY!" screamed the boy, his hands falling in front of his face as he tried to protect himself from Daryl's wrath.

"I did-didn't me-mean ta'ta we-we-wet the bed. PLEASE!" He screamed at Daryl with a vice that near shattered his eardrums._ "Don'Don'Don't want the be-elt!"_  
Michonne stepped backwards, her eyes slipping from the boy to Daryl as he scooped the boy up.

"Hush…" Daryl cooed, looking at the boy as he placed him over his shoulder. "Just wet the bed, that's all." He sighed, soothing circles into his back.  
"Ain't yourfault. Ain't getting the belt." He whispered- his rough hand wiping away his tears. "No more belt, I promise."

Daryl knew that sting all too well, the slap and the waiting that horrible waiting that you felt as the belt was raised and it slashed through the air.  
It was a feeling that was so horrible, it caused him to feel as though a dagger had been shoved between his ribs and thrust into his heart upon hearing and seeing that his boy feared this.  
It had been months that he (and Carol- when Daryl was just in over his freaking head) had nurtured the boy, it broke his heart just a tiny bit to see him so terrified over the idea that Daryl might beat him.

The boy sobbed out into his shoulder as Daryl ran his hand over his dark head.

"What's got you so upset hmm?" Carol asked, nudging her way through the crowd of people with a roll of her eyes.

_"We-wet the-the be-bed."_ The boy whimpered, looking up at his mother with big shining black eyes.

"No big deal." She smiled softly and gracefully. "Daddy'll get you cleaned up, ain't that right?" she asked Daryl.

"Yop." Daryl nodded, walking back through the crowd.

"Don't ya'll have something more productive to do with your lives?" he asked gruffly, brow furrowing and cheeks tinging red as he followed Michonne's gaze down to his long since mutilated feet, each with a toe missing in the middle and the end.

In the terror of the moment, he'd not realized that he had run out of the cell both bare chested and barefooted, baring all his scars for the world to see.  
Shame flared up through his body as it usually did.  
Carol was the only one he let see his scars willingly.  
Sure, Hershel had seen them, so had Rick at one point or another.  
But to Daryl, the marks across his skin represented a part of his past that he would never be able to forget.  
Never be able to fully overcome. His father had made sure that he would never be able to erase the marks of his abuse-

So who was he to try and erase the marks another man had placed on this boy?

"Go on now." Rick stated, ushering people out of the way so that Daryl could deal with his son, giving Daryl a pat on the shoulder. (causing Daryl to flinch at the contact on bare skin.)

Michonne looked at him coolly before spinning on her heel and gliding away.

"Come on bubba." Daryl sighed, heading back towards his cell shaking his head not unlike a dog as he tried to rid himself of such thoughts.

_"Later."_ Carol whispered in his ear in passing, her hand ghosting over his ass fondly.

He snorted, a smile creeping onto his face.  
"Damn right later." he grunted back, knowing full well he'd hold her to it.


End file.
